


A Lesson in Obedience

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Choking, Corporal Punishment, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Possessive Behavior, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25661137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jonah is none too pleased with Jonathan’s attempt at a rude departure. He’s decided to teach him a lesson.(Kink meme fill.)
Relationships: Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 45
Collections: Anonymous, Rusty Kink





	A Lesson in Obedience

**Author's Note:**

> Filled for the [kink meme](https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?thread=461924#cmt461924).

Jonathan comes to slowly in an unfamiliar room.

His head is foggy. It must take several minutes of lying there, his senses slowly coming back to him, before he realizes that his hands are bound above his head. He dimly recognizes that this is unusual, and probably worrisome, but he’s too dazed to feel proper panic.

The fear does eventually trickle into him, though, minute by minute, growing as he begins to wake up more fully and realize what’s happened to him. As his mental faculties return, he’s able to take in his surrounds more clearly. He’s in what appears to be a study of some kind, with a lamp left lit on the desk in the corner. There are a few chairs, a number of bookshelves, a large and expensive-looking rug, but no sign of anyone else around.

The last thing Jonathan remembers is the serving girl bringing him dinner. It had been early evening then, and now it’s full dark, judging by the view from the window.

Jonathan’s legs are free, but he’s too weak to attempt to stand. He must have been slipped a sedative of some kind, he thinks. He’s not a man who has a great number of enemies, although in the course of his career he’s had professional disagreements with a few fellow physicians who might have come to dislike him. Jonathan doesn’t think this is the work of a resentful colleague, though. He has a terrible feeling he knows exactly who it is.

He’s felt a trepidation ever since he posted that letter, a fear of what Jonah Magnus might visit upon him for refusing him. But Jonah had never written him back, as he’d requested, and Jonathan had hoped that their relationship was truly ended. By the time he’d returned to London, he was beginning to put it out of his mind, or at least attempt to do so as well as he could, given the things he’d seen.

He’d been mistaken, obviously. He was a fool to think that Jonah Magnus was the type of tumor he could slice off neatly and have gone from his life. Jonah’s sickness, because he understands now that there is something _wrong_ about that man, has permeated him too deeply now. He lies there, dread mounting inside him, for what feels like a very long time, and thinks about what a terrible mistake he’s made. 

A long series of mistakes, really. He wonders somewhat bitterly what his life would have been like if he had never met Jonah, never agreed to work with him. Certainly he wouldn’t be in the predicament he is now. He should have turned his back on him earlier, when he wasn’t in so deep. Now — well, God knows what he’s gotten himself into now.

Finally, when the waiting has gone on so long Jonathan doesn’t think he can grow any more apprehensive, the door to the study opens. When Jonah steps in, the confirmation of his captor’s identity gives him a hollow, resigned sense of affirmation at having guessed correctly, but what settles over him much heavier at the same time is a terrible weight of dismay.

“Good evening, Jonathan.” Jonah shuts the door behind him. “So lovely to see you.” He speaks airily, as if this is a casual encounter and Jonathan is not tied up on his floor.

He goes to the window and draws the curtain. The action fills Jonathan with a sort of despair, like the last point of connection between him and the outside world has just closed, and now it’s only him and Jonah.

Jonah pulls out the chair from the desk and sits, regarding Jonathan from across the room. “I must say, I was quite hurt by your letter,” he says. He leans forward. “Would you really cast me aside so easily? After all I’ve done for you?”

“Jonah,” says Jonathan. He finds his voice is much weaker than he’d like. “Please. Let my hands free. We can talk about this like civil men.”

Jonah looks down at him through his eyelashes. “No,” he says, “I don’t think I’m going to do that.”

His tone sends a new surge of fear through Jonathan. “Maybe I was rash in what I said to you. Please just untie me. We can discuss this.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to discuss,” says Jonah. He stands and walks over to Jonathan, then crouches, right down by his face. “You’ve been very disloyal, Jonathan. You’ve been ungrateful. You’ve lost sight of what matters. You’ve lost sight of who I _am._ ” He reaches out to touch Jonathan under the chin and tilt his head towards him. “I think you’re going to reconsider what you wrote to me, and you’re going to learn not to do anything of this manner again.”

Jonathan’s heart races, even with the remnants of the drugs still in his system making the rest of him sluggish. He can feel himself beginning to sweat. “Jonah,” he pleads.

Jonah says nothing else to him, and instead begins to unbutton Jonathan’s waistcoat. He pushes it up his chest until it catches on the loop of his bound arms, then does the same with his shirt, leaving Jonathan with a view of his own bare chest, heaving with the fear he’s trying to suppress. Jonah palms lightly over Jonathan’s pectorals, then sits back on his heels and pulls a small pen knife from his pocket.

The sight of the blade breaks the dam on all of the panic Jonathan has been trying to hold inside himself. He begins to struggle against his bindings, stupidly, pointlessly. He twists wildly, going nowhere.

“Stop thrashing, you imbecile,” says Jonah. “I’m not trying to cut you. Not unless you really misbehave.” 

This does nothing to allay the terror rising up in him. Jonathan tries to kick, but can’t muster up the strength or the coordination, and can manage only a weak spasm of one leg as he tries to writhe away from Jonah.

Jonah slaps him across the face. “ _Enough_ ,” he says.

The sting is enough to stun Jonathan into stillness for a moment. Jonah grabs at his shirt and waistcoat where they’re caught around his wrists and begins sawing through the fabric. Once he’s cut all the way through, the blunt edge of the knife pressing coldly just off the edge of Jonathan’s wrist, he tears the remains of the fabric off and tosses it to the side, leaving Jonathan naked from the waist up.

Jonah stands and returns the knife to his pocket. “There,” he says, “was that so difficult?”

Jonathan is panting, from the exertion of his weakened muscles and from simple fear, as Jonah turns around and crosses the room. He pulls something from behind his desk and turns it over in his hands.

As Jonah comes back over to him, Jonathan sees what it is he’s picked up. It’s a riding crop, thin and black. He taps it lightly against his own palm as he looks down at Jonathan.

“What—what are you doing with that?” says Jonathan, as if the answer isn’t already obvious. It seems too absurd to accept. He’s a grown man and a citizen of polite society, he’s a _doctor_ , for God’s sake, Jonah can’t simply beat him like he’s an animal—

“I believe I need to teach you a lesson in obedience, Jonathan.” Jonah sizes him up for a moment, then brings the crop down across the center of his chest.

Jonathan cries out. The sharp pain cuts through the muddle of confusion and fear, and for an instant the whole experience narrows to a point where all he’s aware of is the shock of being struck.

“I want to make sure this lesson stays with you.” Jonah strikes him across the chest again, lower this time, and Jonathan yelps again, the sting splitting his nerves open a second time. “The only way men like you learn is through punishment. So I’m afraid that’s what I have to do.” He punctuates the statement by hitting Jonathan across the stomach this time. The crop bites into the softer flesh there with such a sharpness that Jonathan thinks, as he recoils too late, it must be carving a gash into his abdomen. When Jonah draws back, he’s almost dismayed to find that for all that pain, he hasn’t even broken the skin.

Jonah winds up and cracks the crop across his chest again. He hits Jonathan hard each time, putting far more force into it than anyone ordinarily would when using the implement on a horse. Jonathan learns to choke back the noises he wants to make after a few more blows, but he finds he can’t stop the tears that are starting to form at the corners of his eyes at the pain.

“Jonah,” he begs between impacts, “ _please—_ ”

The next one lands just under his ribs, and he’s unable to stop himself from shouting again. Jonah pauses to sneer coldly down at him. “Don’t whimper,” he says, “it’s unbecoming.”

Jonathan hears the crop whistle through the air again, and this time he tries to roll his body away from it, or at least turn his tender front to a more sheltered position, let Jonah hit his back instead. Jonah plants one foot on his side and holds him in place. The shift has caused him to lose some momentum as he comes down on Jonathan; he makes up for it on the next one.

There are red welts rising across Jonathan’s chest and stomach, and now there is a bit of blood, welling to the surface in tiny pinprick spots where the skin has been insulted past what it can take. He’s lit up with pulsing, raw hurt across his whole front, not just in the spots where Jonah’s hit him. Jonathan realizes that the tears springing up in his eyes have begun to roll down the side of his face. It’s difficult to keep track of what the various parts of his body have been doing as Jonah beats him, with the sedative leaving him still feeling discombobulated and disconnected, although cruelly not numb in any physical way. He can barely sustain a thought now other than for how badly it hurts. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, “Jonah, I’m sorry—”

Jonah doesn’t let up to speak this time. “I don’t want you to tell me you’re sorry,” he says as he lashes once more at Jonathan’s stinging belly. “I want you to tell me you’ll never leave me again. We’re going to make absolutely certain to be thorough with the objective of this exercise, aren’t we?”

Even with his body throbbing in agony, desperate to make it stop, Jonathan doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to work with this man anymore, he wants him out of his life, he wants to flee all this. He never wants to see Jonah Magnus again. Instead of responding, he clenches his teeth and shudders wordlessly.

Jonah strikes him one last time, this time just above the collarbones, at the very base of his throat. The new target is unexpected enough to make the pain fresh all over again. Then he tosses the crop aside and drops to his knees, down where Jonathan’s lying weak and limp and feeling flayed open. He grabs him by the face and leans in very close.

“ _Jonathan,_ ” he hisses quietly, “I am going to give you one last chance. Tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

When Jonathan doesn’t speak, Jonah’s hands go down to his throat and squeeze. It doesn’t hurt as badly as the crop, so for a few seconds, Jonathan almost relaxes into it. The pressure is an allevation from being hit until his mind catches up with the situation and he realizes that Jonah isn’t letting go, only bearing down harder, and oh, God, he’s truly choking him.

Panic flashes up inside Jonathan again. He tries to fight and can manage only a pathetic wriggle that doesn’t discourage Jonah in the least. Jonah isn’t a heavy man, but he’s thrown part of his weight against Jonathan’s chest and the rest against his neck, and in his weakened state, it might as well be a ton of stone. Jonah’s thumbs dig into the sides of Jonathan’s throat until he begins to go lightheaded.

“Stop,” he gasps, “stop it, please, Jonah, don’t, _please_ —”

Jonah’s face doesn’t change as he continues to strangle him. Dear God, Jonathan thinks, he’s going to kill him. The realization spurs him into one last desperate rush of attempted struggle, but the urgency in his mind isn’t matched by his muscles, and this try is even weaker and more ineffectual than the last. Soon he can hardly do more than twitch as he swims in terror with the pressure on his throat becoming unendurable.

Jonah waits until he falls still again, then waits another few seconds, until Jonathan thinks he must finally be slipping away, the world closing in on him, and then Jonah lets go.

Jonathan gasps for air as Jonah releases him. As he drags in frantic breaths, as much as his lungs can hold, he realizes: although it felt like he couldn’t get enough air, he could still breathe and speak with Jonah crushing his throat. It certainly wasn’t for incompetence or lack of strength on Jonah’s part. If he’d intended to compress just the blood flow in Jonathan’s neck and not his airway, maybe he didn’t really mean to kill him —

He can scarcely do anything with this revelation, lying on the floor utterly unable to move, drugged, beaten, and scarce on air. At the moment, just continuing to breathe feels like the most he can possibly do. Just the act of filling his lungs takes all of his attention now, and he has no energy to spare anymore for any thoughts like making Jonah stop. Jonah watches him in silence as he labors to get his breath back.

After a minute, the feeling of being just on the edge of death starts to diminish. Jonathan doesn’t _relax_ , not by a long stretch, but he feels his body coming down from the panicked spasm of approaching dying. Just as he’s beginning to return to feeling alive, Jonah’s hands close around his throat again. 

It’s no less terrifying this time, even with the understanding that Jonah’s intent might not be fatal. Even if he doesn’t mean to kill him, it _feels_ like he’s going to die. As Jonah’s grip tightens around his neck, Jonathan’s remaining ability to reason with his fear is wrung right out of him, and he’s once again flooded in the deep, instinctive terror of having one of his vital functions interrupted.

“Do you understand, Jonathan?” says Jonah, squeezing a little harder. “Your life belongs to me. It has for some time now. A little demonstration like the one you tried to pull won’t do anything to change that.”

Jonathan is aware that he can physically take in a breath, but it isn’t enough. His head feels full of pressure, his body is barely responsive and covered in cold sweat, everything hurts. “Yes,” he rasps out, “I understand.” He tells Jonah what he wants to hear. “I’m sorry, I won’t leave, I’ll never leave you again—” He keeps talking, the words spilling out of him now, trying to satisfy Jonah enough to make him stop. “Please, I’ll go to Millbank, I’ll do whatever you want, anything—”

Finally, Jonah’s fingers ease up from his throat. Jonathan’s head continues to spin even as Jonah lets go of him and sits up straight again, drawing his spine up in a tight, composed line over Jonathan’s sprawled form.

“Very good,” Jonah purrs. “Now, I do hope you’re done acting out. I want you to behave yourself for the rest of your visit here.” He stands and goes to his desk again. Jonathan doesn’t even try to move his head to watch what he’s doing this time.

When he returns, he kneels down by Jonathan’s legs. As he begins to take off Jonathan’s trousers, Jonathan doesn’t even protest. He’s so exhausted and hurt that the indignity of being stripped hardly seems like a further insult. Jonah pulls off his drawers as well, and even the humiliation of being fully naked barely registers after everything he’s endured.

Jonathan assumes that Jonah simply wants to be thorough, and that he’s planning to batter his whole body and not just his upper half. It doesn’t dawn on him what his intentions are until Jonah starts to unbutton his own trousers.

Horror swells up in him. “What are you doing?” he croaks. Jonah only hums to himself, a single, soft note, and establishes himself between Jonathan’s legs.

Jonah feels terrifyingly close to him now, even more so than when he was choking him. Jonathan tries, once more, to kick at him or to twist away. Jonah leans forward to lay one arm on Jonathan’s chest, and just a bit of his weight pushed down on Jonathan’s aching, enfeebled body is enough to render him essentially immobile. Jonah is partially hard, Jonathan realizes with a sick lurch as Jonah’s body presses against his. Has this been exciting for him? Hitting him, or choking him, or maybe both, or perhaps just seeing Jonathan broken and scared? Is there any end to what Jonah wants from him, what he wants to take from him, pull agonizingly out of him?

“Please,” says Jonathan, desperate tears starting to gather in his eyes again, “I told you I won’t leave.”

“I know,” says Jonah, his voice gone all soft and almost gentle now. “But I still have to punish you. Otherwise you won’t learn. I have to make sure you won’t try anything so foolish again.”

Jonah pushes his trousers down his thighs and reaches for what he’s brought with him from the desk, which Jonathan sees now is a small bottle of something. He pours some of it in his hand and reaches between his legs. Jonathan closes his eyes as Jonah begins to rub it on himself. He doesn’t want to watch. A few seconds later, he hears Jonah pick up the bottle again, and then startles at the touch of Jonah’s wet fingers over his hole. 

Jonah rubs the liquid over him, cold and oily. Then his fingers retreat, and Jonathan’s breath catches as he feels them replaced by what he knows must be the head of Jonah’s cock, pressed ever so lightly against his entrance.

Jonathan opens his eyes and casts his gaze wildly to Jonah. He has some foolish idea that if Jonah could just look him in the eye, maybe he would be provoked into a pang of mercy, but the look Jonah gives him in return is pitiless. The only thing under the cold is a hint of amused interest in Jonathan’s reaction. “Don’t, please, Jonah,” he whispers. “You don’t have to do this.” 

He lets out a strangled cry as he feels Jonah force himself inside of him. His limbs try to push away out of instinct, but Jonah lowers his weight onto Jonathan’s chest again, restraining him from doing anything more than trembling forcelessly. Jonathan’s whole body tries to stiffen, pulling together as much tension as it can manage in his wrecked state, trying to push back against Jonah, to rebuff him. Jonah overpowers his every effort easily. Jonathan simply doesn’t have the strength in him anymore.

Jonah feels strange and painful inside him, an unfamiliar and overwhelming intrusion in parts of him that have never been touched before. He didn’t even know he was capable of sensation in these spots buried in his innards until Jonah awakens them with hurt. He’s trapped under the weight of Jonah’s body as Jonah begins to move inside of him, an unnatural feeling that magnifies the stretch and the ache in his most vulnerable parts to an even more unbearable degree.

“Please, I told you, I’ll do anything you want.” Jonathan has been reduced to begging. He doesn’t know what else he can do. “I don’t know what more you want from me — please, I’ll do anything —”

“I know you will.” Jonah reaches up to cup his face in his hands, and almost smiles at him. “Jonathan. I do love you. But I need to teach you a lesson.”

A shudder wracks Jonathan’s chest. He’s weeping again, more unrestrainedly now, and every agitated convulsion of his breath brushes his body against Jonah’s. He can feel the shift and drag of Jonah’s cock thrusting inside him, the movement never stopping for long enough for Jonathan to even adjust to that moment’s level of distress, to begin to learn the discomfort well enough to shut it out of his mind. Every moment is a stream of new violations of a different inch of him, each one of them dripping up into his spine as horribly as if they were the first.

“Relax,” Jonah urges him. His arms snake up around Jonathan’s shoulders. His weight has shifted at some point while Jonathan didn’t notice, preoccupied with the more painful sensations, and now Jonah is no longer pressing down on him, just holding him, a soft touch, almost adoring.

Jonathan has an awful memory of his wedding night. It had been a tender moment, nothing like this, and he doesn’t want to think of it now. He had guided his wife gently through her shyness, and when they had joined with each other he’d cradled her the same way Jonah holds him now. He pushes it out of his mind. He doesn’t want to pollute that moment by holding it too close to this one. He doesn’t want to think about then, and he doesn’t want to think about what’s happening right now, either. He doesn’t want any of this to be happening.

Jonah runs his hands through Jonathan’s hair and shushes him as he sobs. He caresses him, across his face, his sore sides, the dip of his hip. “This is who you belong to,” he murmurs as he drives into Jonathan in long, cruel strokes. “I want you to know that.” 

His thumb sweeps Jonathan’s cheekbone, dropping to wipe the tears from where they’ve trickled down his face. His other hand meanders down to fondle idly at Jonathan’s unresponsive cock.

He kisses Jonathan, first on the neck, then on the mouth. “There, you’re being so good now. I know you can be good for me,” Jonah coos. He pets Jonathan’s cheek. When he arches his back into him, the fabric of his still-clothed chest rubs raw against Jonathan’s bare, scathed skin.

Jonah’s thrusts are growing in speed and ferocity. He has one hand wound into Jonathan’s hair again, the other at his thigh. They tighten around him, and Jonah lets out a soft, satisfied sigh as he spills his seed inside of Jonathan.

Jonah’s hips slow and then fall still, inspiring a spot of thin relief in Jonathan. Jonah rests on top of him momentarily, his breathing gone deep and sated. His weight is leaden and uncomfortable, with Jonah no longer expending any effort to hold himself up and off Jonathan, and the protrusion of his cock settled inside is still foreign and miserable, but it feels like a respite to no longer have Jonah striking into him so forcefully.

Jonah withdraws himself from Jonathan, leaving him feeling soiled but reprieved. He stands and tucks himself back into his trousers. Is it over now, Jonathan thinks? He silently thanks God. Even if Jonah has plans to continue with some new punishment, to inflict some additional torment on him, it can’t be worse than this.

Jonathan waits, not looking at Jonah, to brace himself for whatever is going to be rained down on him next. He has begun to feel oddly detached, no longer caring so much what it is Jonah chooses to do to him now. He has no power anymore; there’s nothing he can do but let it happen. But out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jonah doing nothing but gazing down at him, buttoning his jacket back up.

“I’ll have you clothed and sent home in the morning,” Jonah says. Jonathan doesn’t reply. What could he possibly say to that? _Thank you?_

Jonah walks around to the other side of him so that Jonathan is looking at him again. Jonathan wants to turn his head in the other direction in petulance, but he’s too sapped to carry out the movement. Jonah smiles at him. “Now, you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Jonathan feels something in his throat flex in protest as he answers. “Yes,” he grits out.

Jonah looks pleased, and it’s impossible to tell if it’s at the reply or at the tortured way in which Jonathan makes himself spit it out. “Very good,” he says. He steps over Jonathan on his way to the door.

As he’s in the doorway, Jonah turns to look back at him. Jonathan resents him for it. All he wants now is to be left alone. He’s bound on the floor just as he was when Jonah arrived, and now as Jonah leaves he’s additionally naked, defiled, bruised, and he’s found that he’s been robbed of even his own autonomy to quietly remove himself from Jonah’s life. If Jonah has some other remark to make to him or some new arrogant look to give him, Jonathan doesn’t want to tolerate a single second more of it.

But all Jonah does is smile again and say, “Good night, Jonathan.” Then he’s gone.


End file.
